The Reunion, page 7
After I’d finished smoking the entire packet, I called Helen who, to her credit, didn’t say I told you so. She tried telling me I should be focusing on my finals but she could tell from my tears and angry crying that that wasn’t going to happen so she said I should go out with a girlfriend and get smashed instead. I texted Lyla and suggested we head to one of the other colleges for the evening to let our hair down. It was a Sunday night in the middle of exams, but she agreed. I held it together as I was doing my hair and makeup and choosing what to wear. But when I got to her room, I couldn’t do it. Her smile was too bright. I made up some excuse about exam stress and feeling a migraine coming on and scuttled back to my room to brood alone. I felt guilty for keeping it from her. What kind of person doesn’t tell their best friend they’ve broken up with the love of their life? But admitting it to her was like admitting it to myself.
Hey stranger, you about? Fancy a
sharpener? I could come over
It’s the third message along these lines that I’ve sent to her this evening. She hasn’t replied, even though she’s surgically attached to her mobile. She’s got the N90 and she spends her life taking arty photos on it and showing them off because nobody else’s phone can take pictures as good.
I don’t want to be desperate. Just because we usually go to these things together doesn’t mean that I can’t walk in on my own. She probably wants to make an entrance. She finished her exams two days ago; I know she was going to the hairdresser today. She’s got this froth of black curls that fall perfectly down her back but she doesn’t like styling it herself, so she goes to the hairdresser twice a week. I could go to her room and see if I can catch her on the way, but I’ve messaged her enough. I don’t want to be like a dog begging for scraps. Sometimes, when we’re getting ready in her bathroom, our faces lit up by the mirror with bulbs around the frame, I wonder what she sees in me. She’s got the designer clothes and handbags, the perfect hair and a body that makes men lose their place in sentences and I’ve got… Henry. Going on my own will be good for me; it’s not as if I’m going to have Lyla as a sidekick at law school. She read economics and management; she’s headed straight into the City when we graduate.
I take another swig of my Cava, trying not to wince at its sharpness. All summer long we drank crisp Pinot Grigios and heavy Italian reds. Henry bought them by the caseload, barely even bothering to look at the price. It’s different when I’m on my own. This Cava was £3. The more I drink of it, the less my taste buds protest. I’m being stupid. I should have bitten the bullet and told Lyla about the break-up; she might have been able to help. I’ll find her tonight and fill her in, I decide. Before I find Henry. She might have some advice; unlike Helen, men are her specialist subject. She’s had a different boyfriend each term; I’ve only ever dated Henry.
I take up the eyeliner again, bracing my right hand with my left to keep it steady. The rest of my face is flawless – my skin is creamy and my cheeks are flushed. I’ve managed to conceal the plum-coloured crescents under my eyes. The last thing Henry needs to know is that I’ve spent the week in sleepless agony. I think of the last time I got insomnia after my mum died, and how sweet he was, going to Boots and loading up with every over-the-counter medication he could get me, and buying a ton of DVDs and magazines to distract me until I was ready to leave my room. That’s the Henry I want back.
I sweep the brush from the corner of my eye outwards for the sixth time and this time it catches. A perfect cat’s eye. It must be a good omen – aren’t cats supposed to be lucky? I repeat the movement on the other side and load on some mascara. Then I stand back from the mirror to see the full effect. I’m wearing a push-up bra, white faux satin bustier top that I got on eBay and a pair of denim shorts that I know Henry likes. Because I haven’t been eating properly this week, the waistband is loose so I secure them in place with a couple of safety pins. Even then they hang low, exposing at least an inch of my waist. If I were in sales, you might say I’ve got all my wares on show. I hope they’re enough.
I smash more Cava down my throat and crank the music up high. The Pussycat Dolls belt out of my laptop speaker, harmonising about being hot and wanted and filling me with confidence. I can practically feel my bloodstream humming as the alcohol hits it. I’m bouncing as I slip my feet into my favourite glittery crimson platforms. Why wouldn’t Henry want me back?
I heave the sash window up and look out on to the quad. Diagonally across the grass, I see a stream of people heading towards the Great Hall where the party is. The bright colours and tight clothes are at odds with the majesty of the buildings behind them. I can almost imagine the gargoyles perched on the roof gutters judging them for their dodgy fashion sense and drunken shrieking. I can hear the noise from here. Even though the formal college balls don’t start until next week, everyone who’s finished their exams wants to let their hair down. I grab my fake Prada handbag (a Helen gift – she did a news story on fake handbags last year) and head for the door. I need to make an entrance, but I don’t want to be so late that Henry’s forgotten to look for me. Before I flip my door open, I readjust my Wonderbra. I’ve always been a believer in faking it until you make it. Nobody watching my hips wiggle as I strut down the central path would imagine that my insides are churning.
I’ve deliberately avoided contacting Henry this week, though my fingers have been itching to text him. I haven’t gone to slops, the river or the college library. Will’s knocked on my door a couple of times, but I’ve pretended not to be in. I know it was him because he left a tube of Smarties (my favourite chocolate) and a miniature bottle of vodka like you get on aeroplanes and I know he collects them. I’ve tried to focus my attentions on my final paper, though it feels like most of the information has gone in one ear and out the other. I haven’t even told people we’ve broken up. As far as I can tell, Henry hasn’t either. Apart from Will. That has to be a good sign. But what if it’s not enough?
Getting him back isn’t as simple as clicking my fingers and looking hot. Henry’s used to having things served up to him on a plate. I know the way his mind works. I’ve seen him bristle when Will and I share a joke in the corner of the Eagle. And we always end up arguing if someone else offers to buy me a drink at Cindies or Life or one of the other clubs in town. He doesn’t want somebody else playing with his toys. If I want to get him back, I’m going to have to make him jealous. Normally I’d feel bad about leading someone on, but I’ve seen the guys from the Odysseans all over girls one night, blanking them in the college bar the next. They rank their conquests depending on bra size and once had a bet to see which of them could shag the ‘poorest’ girl in college. When Henry found out, he went mad. Said it brought the whole club into disrepute. They deserve everything they get. Any one of them should do. Not Will, though. We’re mates. We look out for each other.
It’s not as if I’m going to do anything, except flirt a little. I’ve been off limits and on a pedestal for three years, the prom queen to Henry’s king. All I need to get Henry worked up is for one of them to believe for one night that I might be in reach. Then I simply have to withdraw gracefully and wait for him to warn whoever it is off and reclaim me. I’ve seen him start fights for less. Then there’s two more weeks of college before we graduate and head off to law school and into the rest of our lives, safely back together. What could possibly go wrong?
Eight
Now 18.30
5 ½ hours to go
From this position by the edge of the quad the buildings seem smaller than I remember. On the surface, nothing has changed. The sandstone bricks are buffed to within an inch of their lives; the ivy climbing them neatly cut back. The sea of grass that stretches from one side to the other, filling the middle, is impeccably shorn and brilliant emerald, despite the dry summer we’ve just had. But they don’t seem as stately as they did when I marched down the gravel drive eighteen years ago. I remember finding out two prime ministers had had my room before me and being scared to sit down at the desk in case I damaged it. I propped my laptop on my knees and wrote my essays that way until at least the beginning of the Christmas holidays.
‘Let’s go and get lashed.’ Nick tugs me towards the Great Hall. He’s champing at the bit. Having the champagne at the hotel has encouraged him. Even though I don’t drink much normally, we finished the bottle.
‘Slow down,’ I laugh. ‘We’ve got plenty of time.’
‘The reception started at six,’ Nick reminds me. ‘It’s not on to come in too late.’
‘So we’ll sneak in and make sure nobody sees us.’ I stare at the buildings and remind myself how far I’ve come. I feel stronger than I did when we arrived a couple of hours ago. I’m strong enough to be here. When I crawled out of this place, I didn’t think I could make anything of myself. I didn’t care where I ended up. Here I am, a wife and mother. Life might not have turned out how I’d planned it to but it hasn’t been bad. I wonder whether now’s the time to mention law school to Nick, but he’s tugging at my arm like an impatient toddler.
‘You don’t know how these things work. There are usually speeches.’
‘I thought those were after dinner?’ I frown. I’m relying on those speeches.
‘I’m not a hundred per cent sure of the running order. Speaking of which…’
I let him pull me along, trailing my hand along the bricks as we walk down the flank of the building, towards the large square hall jutting out on the end. I’ve walked this route so many times, I wonder if the individual gravel stones kicking against my heels have kicked against them before. Or are they the ones that I felt against my face that night? I feel my chest getting tight and force myself to look anywhere but at the gravel. I’m being stupid again. These sorts of things get recycled. We’re all replaceable.
I find myself slowing down as we get closer to the hall, as though my body is resisting being pulled into its orbit. I notice two trundle tables positioned outside the entrance, covered in thick magenta cloth, a crystal hurricane lamp perched on each one. The table on the left is piled high with champagne glasses, next to a tower of Moët bottles. How tacky. Typical Will. I think of the endless rounds he used to buy at the cafe in the meadow, competing with Henry, even though he probably couldn’t afford them. He can’t do anything by halves. I take one and force myself to sip it, reminding myself I need a clear head if I’m going to do what I set out to. Nick’s taken a glass and gone over to the other table, where he is laughing to himself.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Talk about a blast from the past.’
He picks up something that looks like a driving licence from the table and holds it out. When I step closer, I see it’s a name badge, complete with passport photograph in the corner.
‘I don’t get it.’
‘They’re our matriculation photos, the ones they took in our first week.’ Nick chuckles, dangling the badge under my nose. An image of Nick at eighteen in his first week at college, the frame entirely covered by wild, curly hair, stares back at me. He looks like an Ewok. Thankfully neither of the twins has inherited his unmanageable locks.
‘I think I’ve improved with age.’ He fixes his badge to the front of his tuxedo and turns back to the table. ‘Do you want me to help you find yours?’
I recoil. I have no interest in seeing my own photograph. I was a different person back then. It’s like what people say about grief. You can never be the person you were after you experience a loss. The blonde peering out from underneath her fringe in that photo may as well be a stranger. I look down at the table. There are about half a dozen badges left. Most people must have already taken theirs and gone inside. I wonder how many will be here; how many of them feel as nervous as I do.
‘There you are.’ He points at one of the badges at the corner of the table. I’m surprised he can tell. Despite the light the hurricane lamps are emitting, it’s hard to see the individual faces unless you hold them up. He picks it up and holds it out, stroking the edge of the badge. ‘Aren’t you going to put it on?’
‘I’m not making a hole in this satin. It cost a fortune.’
‘Let me do it. I’ll make sure it doesn’t make a mark.’ Nick gestures at his own breast pocket, where his badge is hanging.
‘I don’t want to risk it. I’m fine like this.’ I feel myself getting tenser. It’s being this close to the hall, and the anteroom off it, that’s doing it. I know I’m back for a reason, that I promised Helen, that tonight’s finally my chance to get my own back on Henry, Will and Lyla. But a tiny part of me, the part that clearly doesn’t share Helen’s DNA, just wants to leg it.
‘Then how will people know who you are?’
‘They’ll see us together and know that way.’ I sidestep around the fact that we were never a couple at university. ‘Or they won’t. To be honest, I’m fine with being anonymous.’
‘I really think you should—’
‘I don’t want to wear it, okay?’
He looks surprised. Normally I bow down to his suggestions. Emily Toller is a people-pleaser. I take the badge out of his hand and put it back on the table, resisting the temptation to hurl it into the darkness.
Nick backtracks. ‘It’s completely up to you.’
A gust of wind scuffs off the trees and whistles past us, making me shiver.
‘You’re cold,’ Nick tells me. ‘Come on, let’s get inside.’
He bounds up the steps two at a time. The huge oak door is open; I can see the rooms off the corridor glowing behind. The sight of the brickwork lit up like that and what’s behind it makes my skin start to crawl. I stand there, feeling a wave of claustrophobia, then Nick says, ‘After you,’ and I take a deep breath and follow him in.
* * *
I was able to hurry past the anteroom, clutching Nick’s hand and not looking, but the hall looks completely different to how it did last time I was here, which stops me feeling quite so ill at ease. No strobe lighting for a start. Tonight, it’s entirely lit by candles, tall white columns set in holders flickering from the walls and on all the tables. This college was founded by one of the Plantagenet kings and though various buildings, like the library and the bar, have been added on by generous alumni, the main hall has maintained its medieval feel. The windows at either end are stained glass and usually there’s a huge Holbein painting of the founder on the far wall opposite the entrance. It was commissioned by Henry VIII to celebrate his favourite ancestor and it’s often roped off because it’s so valuable. Tonight, the patch of wall where the frame normally hangs is covered by a dark magenta curtain. The alumni magazine mentioned the painting is at the Courtauld Gallery being restored, but the effect is eerie, as though even one of England’s blood-thirstiest kings can’t stomach tonight’s reunion – Cambridge’s equivalent of the nation crumbling if the ravens desert the Tower of London. I tell myself off for projecting and carry on looking around. The top table is laid for eight, on the raised platform at the right of the hall, diagonal to where we came in. It runs parallel to the edge of the dais and only one side of it is laid, wedding style, so the diners can observe and be observed by the other guests. Normally the master of the college sits there with his guests. Tonight, that’s where Will, as host, will sit. My eyes fix on the screen situated halfway up the wall behind it, next to the founder’s curtain. Even I, who still think of an iPad as cutting-edge technology, can’t help being impressed. The screen is so paper-thin it can be unrolled and stuck to the wall like a poster. When the event is over, it will be peeled off, rolled up and stored somewhere safe. It’s worth a fortune. Those screens are how Will made all his money; their portability has revolutionised conferences. All his graphics and apps pale in comparison. I know this because the financial pages of every newspaper tell me so. I think of the contents of my handbag and how easy they will be to beam up on to it. Ironic that his greatest achievement is going to be part of his downfall, too.
I look at the sleek plasma sitting on the wall. It’s supposed to enhance the Great Hall’s appeal for conference hires. This college isn’t rich like some of the better-known Cambridge colleges. It has to pay its way. It’s certainly going to be doing that tonight. I take my phone out of my bag and log in to the college’s free WiFi in case I need it later, then I look around the rest of the room.
‘Why don’t we check where we’re sitting?’ Nick nods at the table plan on an easel next to the door.
I shrink into him. Because the event is already under way, we’ve missed the bit at the beginning where people flounder around and look for people. Even though I was dreading mingling, at least it would have given me a distraction, something else to think about. Without that, my mind is starting to wander. I start to remember what happened here.
‘I expect we’ll be on one of those.’ Nick points to the two slightly less ornate wooden tables facing the top table, each laid for a three-course meal, or ‘formal hall’ as we used to call it. ‘Will’s saving the top table for his nearest and dearest. Look, they’ve really gone all out.’
There are crested college plates, thick linen napkins and huge silver candelabras spearing the centre of each table, the metal flashing in the candlelight. A menu at each place tells us exactly what we’ll be eating. I force myself to focus on all the details to pull my mind out of the past.
The left-hand side of the hall has been cleared, except for half a dozen tall circular tables. Each is topped with a champagne bucket overflowing with bottles. Around them, knots of people are collected. Men in tuxes and dinner jackets, women in evening gowns that range from black across a spectrum of metallics. Other than Lyla, nobody’s wearing bold colours and only the odd person is brave enough to get their knees out. I can tell by the way some of the men are standing and the cut of some of the dresses who has come back with something to prove. Some people are smiling and laughing, having immediately reconnected with old tribes. Others look shell-shocked to have found themselves back here. For those who were in the in-crowd at Cambridge, college was the place to be; memories were made, lifelong friendships formed. But there were people who didn’t fit in, didn’t form connections and were probably anxious to get the hell away from this place as soon as they graduated. And not come back. I hold the dubious honour of having started in the former and ended in the latter.
